Pizza, wine, and a movie

It was good to be a girl growing up in the country. And where I live was truly country when I was fourteen. It's not so much anymore. Sure, it's RURAL, but the unique flavor of a community founded by five large families has been lost. Too many new folks just sleep in the houses they built or bought here. It's a condition of many small dots on the map. But I digress.

Like a lot of young girls, I loved horses. We had neighbors with a stable, and I had permission to ride four of the less valuable horses at will. With their own children grown and gone, the only stipulation was that I exercise all of them, not just my favorite. Now that's a deal.

It just so happened my favorite was a sweet, and smart, little guy named Sinbad who'd follow me around like a dog. He was the one who always galloped to meet me at the gate, ready for adventure. I never rode him far, mindful of the small stature he didn't know he had, but he's the one I missed when the stable was sold. Anyway, I loved horses.

So where I am going with this trip down memory lane? Right to last night.

Last night, all I had on my mind was finishing chapter ten. The current WIP has a March 1 deadline, but I want it finished now. So when my honey, this sixty-something, balding, near-sighted, ex-bad boy lead guitarist said it was time for a movie night, I stared at him. When he left to go pickup a pizza, I realized just how serious he was.

I was suspicious. I've lived with this man for almost twenty years. He goes along with the concept of movie night, but he doesn't initiate them. And he brought home a bottle of wine with the pizza! Yep. Suspicious behavior. I started to see dollar signs, as in whatever he wants to buy must be BIG.

Well, I must confess this morning, sheepishly, that I had it wrong this time. The spousal unit didn't have an ulterior motive beyond providing me with an enjoyable evening. We settled on the sofa with our pizza and cheap White Zif, and he selected a pay-per-view channel. The movie - Secretariat.

I love this guy almost as much as I love horses.

Strange Days, Half a Lifetime

November is always a strange time in the yearly cycle of my life. November 8th marks the anniversary of my father’s passing, and this year is particularly significant. This year, I have lived half my life without my dad.

I never know how I’m going to feel when November rolls around. Some years I’ve been melancholy, reflecting about those things in my life I can’t celebrate with him. What he’d say about my writing, I don’t know. He was always proud of me, but his little girl wasn’t supposed to know about, um, you know… sex.

He was a man of few words, unless it was about the speed at which I prefer to drive. It’s not what you might think. Dad drilled it home that if I planned to drive fast, I’d better know how to make the correct split-second decision. He didn’t tell me to slow down, because he didn’t waste words.

My dad is directly responsible for my love of American muscle cars. No, not exotic, for God’s sake, as described by one reviewer. AMERICAN MUSCLE. I know by the sound if it’s got a 283 or a 327 under the hood. I know at a glance if it’s a ’67 or ’68 Camaro, and I know the difference between a big block and small block.

What he thought of having a motorhead for a daughter, I don’t know, but I know he took the time to teach me as much as he could. Very helpful knowledge when dealing with mechanics and used car salesmen. Also very helpful when sizing up a prospective mate.

This year, I find I’m sad to have lived half my live without my dad. He would have had his 80th birthday this past June, and I cannot picture him at that age. For me, he’s frozen in time at the age of 52, my age now. A young man. A handsome man with humor in his steely blue eyes. A strong man standing six feet tall whose arms were always ready with a hug.

I hope he’d still be proud of me, of the choices I’ve made, and how I’ve handled those situations where choices were made for me. I hope he’d tell me it’s okay to love my stepfather, a man who is a true blessing to my mother’s life, and to mine. I know he’d approve of my Mr. Goodwrench certified husband.

So if I’m sad right now, I know it will pass. Something mundane will happen as I go about my days, and Dad’s grin will flash in my memory, and I’ll hear his laughter. And for a moment, he’ll be beside me again.

Life is always good.

KC Kendricks

Beautiful

I've been on the hunt this morning, pointing and clicking to my prey. It's not for me
that I do this, rather it's for my darling housemate, he who is pretty much computer illiterate.

I don't say that as any sort of criticism, believe me. I watch him work on engines, and while I get what he's doing, I can't follow in his wrench tracks. So it is with him when I'm on the computer. It's a balanced relationship. I tell him to keep his virus protection updated and he tells me to keep air in the tires.

On Fridays, I breeze in the back door stoked for the weekend. Dogs, cats, and man scatter out of my way as I bolt for my old ratty cut-off jeans and a tee shirt. Yesterday, I walked in the door and froze. On my hubby's monitor screen was a very small copy of the Farrah poster. You know the one.

My over-sixty, balding, slightly pouchy, and definitely myopic man greeted me with a very sheepish, "hi."

Yeah, baby, you're busted. I already saw it. Ya old lecher.

I tried, I really tried, not to laugh at him, but if you'd seen his face, you'd have laughed with me. Then he looked at me and said, sadly, that was the biggest picture of the poster he could find. What else could I do but offer to find a higher resolution of it for him?

And for me.

I miss the way I was in the late seventies. Free, on my own for the first time. Still innocent about the ways people hurt other people. Still unaware of impending betrayals and the breaking of promises. Believing in the myths of marriage and life never ending. The Farrah poster somehow captures that era, freezing it in one perfect moment.

Those days are gone, but never forgotten, just like a beautiful woman with a bright smile.

KC Kendricks